


Kill For Me

by tiger_moran



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Criminal husbands, Devotion, Hand Jobs, Love, Loyalty, M/M, Minor Character Death, Murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 07:09:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13118658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran
Summary: “Let even his name be forgotten,” Moriarty whispers in Moran's ear. “Let him be known forever only by that foolish nom de guerre, if he is to be remembered at all.”





	Kill For Me

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when Moriarty/Moran and Marilyn Manson collide
> 
> From Marilyn Manson - KILL4ME  
> Would you kill, kill, kill for me?  
> I love you enough to ask you again  
> Would you kill, kill, kill for me?  
> You won't be kissing me unless you kill for me  
> Kill, kill, kill for me
> 
> Bloody noses are just like roses  
> But what happens when we are betrayed?  
> Won't you drag him to the shed  
> And unload six rounds in their fucking face?  
> This is a sacrifice

Not all gods require sacrifices, but Moran has heard of many who do, and not all offerings of mere animals. Whispered rumours of human sacrifice to Kali, lurid stories of hearts torn out of the victims' chests in Aztec ceremonies vast in scale and tales of men and women hanged as offerings to Celtic gods.

Moran has no god and worships at no altar, yet he is devout, devoted, kneeling before a different idol, one for whom he has killed without compunction. It has been plain to them both almost from the first moment they met that Moran would kill for Moriarty; it became apparent not so very long after that that he would die for him also. Though Moriarty never asked for that, Moran laid his own heart bare to the Professor. One day perhaps he may hang for him, led from gaol to gallows to grave to conceal the Professor's secrets - not an offering, but a sacrifice still. None who betray the Professor ever survive, but there are those who would die instead to protect him.

He looks up at the Professor dressed in funereal black, Moriarty's face shadowed, blue-grey eyes cool as ice, very nearly unreadable to anyone else at least.

“Is he gone, Sebastian?” the Professor asks in a measured tone. No need to ask any more, no need to specify further. There can be only one meaning here.

“Yes sir.”

“I want it to be as if he never was, wiped out like the unfortunate stain that he was.”

“It's done, Professor.”

Moran smells of cold air and freshly turned earth when Moriarty draws him close. Perhaps there is the faintest whiff of other odours too, trace of cordite and blood. His face is still chilled when the Professor presses dry lips to his cheek, kissing him softly.

“Let even his name be forgotten,” Moriarty whispers in Moran's ear. “Let him be known forever only by that foolish _nom de guerre,_ if he is to be remembered at all.” Moriarty purses his lips in distaste before coolly spitting out the name. “ _Porlock_.” But wry humour twists the corner of his lips into the faintest of smiles.

Moran chuckles, a dark rumble of laughter as Moriarty tips Moran's head back and kisses down his neck, lips brushing over the pulse point in his throat. “I'd prefer not to think of him at all. He ain't worth it, and _you_ are far more interesting.”

“You are right, of course, chick.” Moriarty slides a hand beneath Moran's shirt, warm fingers trailing across cold skin, feeling Moran's shiver at the caress. “I would much prefer to focus upon you also.” For a few seconds Moriarty's thigh is between Moran's legs, deliberately so. He slides his other hand even further downwards, behind and beneath layers of fabric, and Moran hisses, catlike, at the touch, although he very definitely leans into it.

There is only one way anyone ever escapes from the orbit of Professor James Moriarty, criminal mastermind, and that is through death. That is not to say that everyone who ever encounters him dies – they do not, for the simple reason that few ever actually come face to face with James Moriarty the arch criminal. Most only ever see James Moriarty the mathematics professor. But anyone allowed close enough to see his other face cannot then leave alive. Moran knew that from that first moment when this man came to him, and never cared overmuch even back then. Now that his heart – his prick too, at this precise moment – is in the Professor's hands he cares not at all about running from him. What would happen anyway if he ever did try to flee from the Professor, when he is himself Moriarty's pet killer, his agent of death, his angel Azrael who takes the souls of those marked to die? Perhaps then he would have to commit some strange act of immolation. Less a sacrifice and more... _atonement_.

“You are the only one I can trust,” Moriarty tells him softly. Words that might intimidate a lesser man, a weaker man, than Moran. Moriarty's trust may be as much a curse as it is a commendation, with the things he asks of his right hand man. Many might buckle under the weight of that particular burden. But the look in the Colonel's eyes is not one of fear, not even unease.

“James,” he murmurs as Moriarty presses him back against the wall, the Professor's body pinning him there. If he has anything more to say though he does not remember – what Moriarty is doing with his hand is _far_ too distracting for that. “James, I...” In the moment of what some have called _la petite mort_ even Moriarty can recognise the look in Moran's eyes for what it is – devotion, _love_. _Mors_ and _amor_ entwined. Of the latter they do not speak aloud, any more than they ever really speak of the deaths they have dealt out to others in anything but veiled terms, but they have never truly needed to.

“My loyal boy,” Moriarty says to him, as Moran, panting, tries to regain some measure of self-control. “My dove.” He puts a hand to Moran's face again, cupping his cheek, and for a moment their foreheads touch, both of them standing with their eyes closed.

After a few seconds Moran turns his face up slightly, pressing his lips to the Professor's, claiming a kiss, and Moriarty gives it. Moran has earned it. Besides, it amuses him to see how Moran flushes with pleasure over such a small thing.

Such acts of betrayal as that committed by the one they will never now refer to except as Porlock are rare, really, if only because few know enough information to actually betray Moriarty with. But each act of betrayal stings. It is Moran though who seemed to feel the most anger, who paced furiously, seething with rage, as if in coming to care for the Professor he has taken to feeling every act of treachery towards him as a personal affront. Only now is he calmer, all of his anger spent.

When the kiss and this moment ends Moriarty draws back, as impeccable and composed as ever, leaving Moran slumped back against the wall, looking dishevelled.

“Go and get yourself cleaned up,” Moriarty instructs him. Plucking Moran's handkerchief from the Colonel's jacket pocket, he wipes his hand clean.

“Yes Professor.” Moran straightens up and flashes him a grin as the Professor hands him back the soiled handkerchief.

Moran's disarrangement, Moriarty knows, is superficial. Behind the slightly disordered clothing and mussed hair the Colonel is as alert and watchful as ever and though his face retains a slight flush he has about him again that sense of stillness that some mistake for apathy or boredom. His capacity to regain his self-control so promptly after being rendered _so_ vulnerable at the Professor's hands has always been a source of intrigue to Moriarty. As is, of course, Moran's willingness to commit murder for him.

“And please change into something smarter,” he tells Moran. “I thought we would dine out this evening.”

“Are we celebrating?” Moran enquires, amusement in his blue eyes as he smooths his hair back.

“Perhaps, yes.”

How morbid, many might think, to commemorate a man's demise so. How very fitting for _them_ however, to toast the ending of Porlock with champagne and French cuisine – not publicly of course. There will be no words spoken about the man across their dinner table for they are hardly so crass as that. But when their eyes meet across the beautifully laid table in the exquisitely fitted out restaurant both of them know just what it is they are drinking to when they raise their glasses. A man died today; a necessary sacrifice was made, and their world is all the better for it.

 


End file.
